Lament for Innocence
by DippityDon't
Summary: [Spoilers for pretty much everything (at a stretch) before Dual Destinies, AJ especially. Childhood fic centred around the Gavin brothers] A skull on the hand and a fatal mistake from fourteen years ago. They say that your mistakes catch up with you in the end. That the truth will eventually be revealed. Perhaps there was more to the black locks than they realised.
1. A Prologue, or Her Sister

Around this time last year, I began writing a fic centred around the Gavin brothers as children. It was poorly-written, had a clunky-at-best concept, and generally needed a lot of work. And I've finally decided to revise it.

As with all stories focusing on hazy at best backstories, there are a good few OCs. However, I've tried to keep them all closely-linked to canon characters; hopefully this'll make sense later on.

I do not own Ace Attorney, of course. If I did, there'd be much more Simon Blackquill merch.

* * *

_My dear Mrs Reinhardt,_

_I was delighted indeed to hear from you after all these years. I am as well as one can be in my position, and I wish the same for yourself and your family. It is a pity, though, that we left so long since last exchanging sentiments; I shall take some time now, a decade too late, albeit, to express my condolences for your father's death. But, one would almost think that you are avoiding me._

_I must regretfully inform you, though, that your letter left me rather cold. I found it most presumptuous, really, in both its accusations and your overconfidence in this so-called proof that you claim to have obtained—it is almost laughable. Although, perhaps my feelings are unjustified; I would not have expected anything less from you._

_I am curious, though, of your intentions. What exactly are your plans for this information, as you insisted on calling it. Forgive me for my impertinence, but what you seem to possess is circumstantial evidence for a fourteen-year-old case—the defendant of which is long-dead, one of the secondary victims on death row, and the other has successfully (in the opinion of the majority) rebuilt his life. There is no advantage in a retrial that I can see, and no court which would accept it. This is ignoring the very fact that this case cannot be reopened. From what I can see, you are intent on dragging up the past with no real objective in mind._

_I implore you, Marta; give up. Your father taught you far better than this._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Kristoph_

Franziska carefully folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope, folding the flap inside it. She turned to the expectantly-waiting guard, and gave a short, curt nod. The man stepped back, knowing that the prosecutor would not tolerate his standing so close. And her lack of tolerance hurt—really hurt.

The blue-haired woman returned her attention to the serenely-smiling man on the opposite side of the glass. "Well? Care to explain?"

He gave a small chuckle at her scowl, and shook his head. "I do not."

"What? How dare you?" she snapped. "Kristoph Gavin, I am—"

"Not Martina Reinhardt—the one whose name is written on the envelope. The only reason I allowed you to read it was, quite frankly, because you came here in your sister's place. I do hope you understand," he folded his arms, amused at the woman's short temper. How she became a successful prosecutor like that was something he'd never understand. Law was about being calm, being collected, being the 'coolest defence in the west', as they liked to call him. "Why are you here, Franziska?"

She looked away, clearly finding the dull grey of the wall far more interesting than the man beyond the glass. "You required that the letter be collected by someone in the legal profession. Hence, I am here. Are you growing forgetful in your box, Kristoph?"

"I believe," he began, adding a thoughtful pause for nothing more than emphasis, "that I asked for your sister."

"And I believe I informed you that Martina was unavailable to meet your request," she replied, shortly. A series of short, staccato beeps sounded from her purse; she took it, studied it, and dropped it back again, with a look of satisfaction. "She is meeting with your dear brother as we speak."

Something within Kristoph clicked; he tensed. "Martina? With Klavier? Why? What does she have to say to him?"

"I should imagine just the same as she said to you in the letter. I do not know the details, she declined to speak of them to me. But, whatever it was, she said to me that 'he deserved to know, it affected him too'. Whatever that means."

He released a long, drawn-out breath. So that was it, then. Perhaps Klavier wouldn't believe her. Yes! He wasn't as stupid as he seemed. Surely he, too, would see that Martina's claim held no water…

Franziska stood from her chair, pulling a long, black coat around her shoulders, which she tied with a red scarf. She met Kristoph's eyes with a narrow gaze. "She always preferred Klavier, you know."

"Did she, now?"

"Undoubtedly."

She moved towards the door, and the guard jumped to open it for her. Her heels clicked on the cold flooring, with the air of one who is truly confident in every aspect of themselves. About halfway there, she stopped. "It was good to see you again, Kristoph."

She didn't look back, and, just as effortlessly as before, exited the room.


	2. The Perfect Family

_I got a pretty awesome review for the prologue-y bit. Here, then, is the first chapter I guess. I meant for it to upload a bit quicker, but I only just got back from Italy yesterday._

_Kind of an introduction I guess. I absolutely love writing little Klavier. Next chapter which'll hopefully be a bit sooner, we'll see more of him._

_And MS Word? Problematic is totally a legit word._

* * *

"Well…"

"Is it salvageable?"

"Erm… hopefully."

What Kristoph and his father stood before was a pool of damp about two metres in diameter, just to the left of the open skylight. The cream carpet was a dark, murky brown, and the covers of the books on the edge of the leather-topped desk were in a similar state. The whole room—the office—previously the brightest, most favoured room in the house, now stank of stale water.

Georg Gavin stepped carefully over the patch to reach the bookshelves, where he ran a finger over the spines of the oldest of the books. He seemed to shrink in relief when he stood, turning to his son with a grim, though genuine, smile. "These are okay, at least. But, Jesus, I'm being more careful next time…"

He began shifting the books from the bottom shelf nonetheless; Kristoph was unsure as to why, but he decided against asking questions, and sprang to assist Georg in transporting them to form a small pile just outside the door. These were volumes he'd never quite found the courage to investigate—they were huge, ancient, and filled with legal jargon which even Kristoph couldn't quite comprehend. He was comforted, though, in the fairly certain knowledge that Georg hadn't read them either. Georg's mind lay with finance.

The dark-haired man dropped a particularly large stack beside the banister, and rested against the doorframe, locks of curls sprung free from their gelled state. "Someone should read these sometime," he commented, lightly kicking the heap. It shuddered, but didn't fall.

"Where did they even come from?" Kristoph asked, artfully avoiding the shelf and shifting the sodden volumes on the desk a couple of feet away. "I cannot recall a time without them."

Georg scratched his head. "I think they were my father's, certainly—you know, I've told you that he was a defence attorney? Yes," he barely waited for Kristoph's obedient nod. Leopold Gavin had been a notable figure in Berlin during his time. "Anyway, when he passed away, these were either going to me or my brother…"

Kristoph's mind leaped to the conclusion: "We have them here to spite Uncle Alec?"

His father snorted. "Spite is such an ugly word…" he sighed, "but, yes. What would he do with them, he can barely read as it is."

The father and son both paused, and Georg emitted a snort before the two were engulfed by laughter in the middle of the water-damaged office. Kristoph revelled in this moment—it was just him and Georg. These moments were rare, and were something he greatly anticipated.

"What'd I miss?"

They quieted, and turned to the doorframe, from where the voice was originating. The blonde, polished Lena Gavin hovered, her arms crossed over her pink angora jumper. Kristoph couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment when his father moved to place an arm around her waist. The rare moment was over as soon as it had began. Georg smiled at his wife. "I like how you notice that and not _that_," he remarked, nodding in the direction of the rainwater patch.

She looked again, her brows furrowing in surprise. "What the hell happened there?"

"Someone may have left the bloody skylight open," Georg said, quietly, with a shrug. Kristoph, rather uncomfortable, moved to the other side of the room, feeling, somewhat strangely, trapped.

"Oh… well…" she didn't really comment. She wouldn't, really; while she would admire the aesthetics of the room, Kristoph had noticed that she never really entered unless she had something to ask of Georg. "Anyway," she stepped back, towards the landing. "What I actually came to ask you about was the guest list for this social thing we're meant to be hosting. Manfred or Carolin?"

Kristoph's mind immediately hoped that the answer would be the prosecutor; intimidating though he was, to the fourteen-year-old, the man was truly fascinating.

"Both," was Georg's reply. Party planning really wasn't his area of expertise _or_ interest. "They've been divorced for god knows how long, they should be able to associate with each other as reasonable people by now."

She hesitated. "Well, okay, but if anything gets too intense, I'm not stepping in…" she pushed a blonde lock away from her face. "I've already confirmed Marta and Bastian. How about…" she raised an eyebrow, "how about we invite Alec? I feel so awful, we haven't seen him in years…"

The fourteen-year-old found himself awash in a wave of awkwardness, as Georg protested childishly whilst Lena cackled just out of his reach. It was made worse, perhaps, when Klavier approached, confused by the laughter which echoed throughout the house. For a six-year-old, laughter meant no work, and that both Georg and Lena would be able to play and give him all of their attention. As if he didn't get enough of it anyway.

"Okay, okay, no Alec," Lena sighed, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation. "Right. Manfred and Sylvia. Carolin and that guy, what's his name again?" no one replied; Kristoph could recall, he just didn't feel the need to explain. There was part of him which didn't believe that he was inclined to answer, in any case. "Anyway, though, wh—" she was interrupted by the shrill ring of the hallway phone. She shot a rather unnecessarily (as Kristoph thought) look at her husband, and hurried out, stiletto heels clicking on the light wooden floorboards.

"Bye, Mama!" Klavier waved, cheerfully, seemingly considering whether or not to shadow her. He decided against it, much to Kristoph's surprise, and instead went and stood in the darkened carpet patch. "What's this?" he asked, clearly oblivious to the fact that his socks were beginning to soak from where the carpet had become saturated.

"Problematic," Kristoph replied, bluntly.

Klavier frowned. "Prob… what does that mean?"

Kristoph rolled his eyes, hoping that Georg wouldn't see. Luckily, his father was far too busy to reprimand him. It wasn't _his_ fault that even at six, Klavier lacked the basic initiative he was fairly certain he himself had been born with. "It means that it's a problem."

"But…" Klavier considered this for a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels. "So why don't you just say it's a problem?"

"Because if everyone spoke in layman's terms, the world would be an incredibly boring place."

"What are layman's terms, Kris?"

Kristoph had long since given up on insisting that his brother use his full name. "To put something in layman's terms is to put something simply," Kristoph stopped himself from adding on a little side about irony.

"So… what _are_ you doing about this? It looks weird," Klavier asked, looking down at the puddle with the sudden realisation that his socks, as Kristoph knew would happen, were beginning to absorb.

Georg's attention had returned from a pile of books which were perched especially precariously. "We're going to pay someone a lot of money to get all this done before your mother's big social do," he moved towards the door, removing his glasses to polish them on his shirt. "If you'll excuse me, I have some matters to attend to, preferably in a part of the house which is not becoming one with nature," he moved past them swiftly, ruffling Klavier's hair as he left. His head was held high, and he moved in a way so authoritative it was as if he were a king. And Kristoph couldn't help but feel a pang of admiration and jealousy.

So absorbed in his thoughts was he that, despite the greyness outside, it never crossed his mind to close the skylight.


	3. Party at Gatsby's (Part 1)

_Okay, I'm so, so so sorry about the lateness of the update. As if it's an excuse, I've been in Italy and I've also been stupidly ill. But I'm always stupidly ill. I felt bad about leaving this so long without updating it; I didn't realise people would actually read the thing, let alone leave super fantastic reviews of it (of which I'm really appreciative, even if I didn't reply..)! So this is half of what I was originally going to write, as an apology because I'm a butt. Although I'm pretty sure it would've been crazily long if I _had_ put the rest of it._

_There's also a little section mentioning flypaper which I'm seriously proud of, just thought I'd point it out..._

* * *

"I'm bored."

"I'm bored, too. Bored with your complaining."

"But Krissi… there's nothing to do…"

"Klavier, only boring people are bored. Go and find something—anything—and stop being a pest."

"You're angry."

"I'm not angry. I just have a lot of work to do."

"You're angry 'cause there aren't any girls that like you coming tonight."

"No. As I said, I am not angry, although if you keep this up I shall be."

"Mama, Kristoph's being mean to me!"

"Boys!" Lena Gavin's voice echoed through the house from the room she and Georg shared, with more than a sense of weariness and preoccupation. There was no accompanying sound of movement; clearly, she was far too concerned with preening herself for the upcoming party. Klavier watched the door expectantly, waiting for her to sail through on unnecessarily high heels. Kristoph just rolled his eyes, and returned his attention to the British Literature paper he was supposed to be writing.

Just moments later, Klavier was at his side, tugging at his sleeve. The movement, though not overly zealous, was enough to send Kristoph's fountain pen scraping down the page, a black, blotched line across the paper. "_What is it_, Klavier?" he asked, through gritted teeth. He glanced back to the page. Ruined. No. It looked awful, it couldn't be salvaged.

"Where's Mama?" he asked, seeming completely oblivious to his brother's ink-related plight.

"Getting ready for tonight's big event. If you were paying any attention at all to your surroundings for the past few weeks, you would be able to infer this," he replied, bluntly. He wondered how at all it wasn't obvious that one of the renowned (well) Gavin parties was being held. Aside from a few stacks of books dotted haphazardly in piles—many of which had had white sheets draped over them in an attempt to transform them into makeshift coffee tables—throughout the spotless rooms, the house looked exactly as it always did before it became flypaper for the rich and glamorous. And Kristoph, for all his disdain, couldn't help but envy them.

Klavier, though, was rather less aware of this phenomenon; ideally, he would be in bed about half an hour after the most eager of the guests arrived. "I don't get it," he said, eventually, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Why do grownups do this? They just get angry before it and after it and the roof breaks."

Kristoph swung round on the swivel chair, the sullied essay for the moment abandoned. "The roof breaking is a completely separate incident to the upcoming event. Correlation does not imply causation," he stared intently at the younger boy as if willing him to somehow develop the knowledge of the word without uttering a question. Accustomed to this look by now, Klavier didn't ask. "And the reason they do it is because it helps them to further themselves in life. I'm sure even you can understand that a little suffering is justified for a noble cause."

The younger boy looked blankly up at him.

"Okay," he sighed, calming himself. Sometimes, he admitted, he forgot how Klavier hadn't, to paraphrase Fitzgerald, had all the advantages that he'd had. "Imagine that you're starving hungry and someone gives you a choice: either you can have one biscuit now, or wait five minutes for a plate of ten. I'm sure you'd agree that the inconvenience of waiting would be worth the advantages."

"So… they do it 'cause good stuff happens after?" Klavier asked, slowly. Kristoph nodded in confirmation.

"Ideally. Yes."

"Can I stay, Kris? I want to go to the party!"

"No you don't, Klavier. It's not the sort of party you think it is, and besides, it'll go on til way past your bedtime."

He neglected, he decided, to mention that the things usually continued on til the early hours of the morning—on several occasions, he had been awoken by the sounds of engines being revved in a show of hung-over hedonism at five in the morning. No wonder, then, that Georg and Lena would often sleep for the entire day afterward.

"It's adults talking about work, and other things you wouldn't understand," he asserted, seeing the look of doubt on the younger boy's face.

"But Marta's there, she always talks about fun things," he piped up, with something about him which suggested that the bedtime battle would be even more of a challenge than usual.

Kristoph shook his head, hoping to quash the oncoming mischief before it had fully reared its head. "Marta is an adult just like everyone else there. She goes to the parties to talk to our mother and assist her fiancé in achieving work placements."

Klavier frowned. "That doesn't _sound_ like Marta… when did she get so boring?"

"When did _you_ get so irritating?"


End file.
